


On without end

by LightofEvolution



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas Fluff, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:08:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21919588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LightofEvolution/pseuds/LightofEvolution
Summary: Every Christmas, Draco and Hermione banter over something. Intensively. Starting out when they were just beginning to be friends, this Christmas tradition developed a life of its own, including the nature of their relationship.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 27
Kudos: 168





	On without end

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rosella_Burgundy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosella_Burgundy/gifts).



> This was written for the Secret Santa exchange of The Write Stuff. Rosella, I hope you will enjoy this! I tried to include a few thing hoping you may like them.   
> Beta love to niffizzle, a true fairy light. She has put so much effort into this, and I am really not the easiest person to be around when it comes to deadlines.

**1998**

When Hermione entered the Head dorm, she was once again greeted by that Merlin-damned whistling.

“Malfoy!” she hollered. “Stop that!” 

“Why should I?” he replied at the same volume, only a hundred per cent more cheery. 

“What are you even doing?” She threw her scarf and warm cloak on the rack beside the door with a flick of her wrist. 

“Humming and whistling while decorating. Isn’t that obvious?” 

Hermione glared at him, not in the mood for one of his shenanigans. Really, she and Draco, now typically on a first name basis, got along as roommates most days. Although, it wasn’t as if they were friends. At least that was what she was telling herself. 

“Dolling up the dorm for one of your conquests? You really must like her,” she commented drily, pointing at the boughs of holly and fir decorated candles he had placed all around their shared living room area. 

He ignored her and continued whistling. 

She sank back on the couch, placing her hand over her face. The patrol had been exhausting. Captivated by the spirit of the season, too many people had thought it fitting to draw back into the many alcoves of Hogwarts’ halls to do very naughty things. 

Even Ron and… whatever the girl’s name had been. Hermione wasn’t one to identify a witch from the exposure of a very naked bum. A bum she applied a very pointed Stinging Hex on, one should add. 

“It may surprise you, but I am decorating because I like Christmas. I am only sad because we don’t have a tree. Although, it’s a Hogsmeade weekend tomorrow,” he trailed off. 

The pause made Hermione open her eyes. 

“No!” 

“What?” he asked, his eyes blinking too innocently. 

“No!” she repeated. “I don’t want a tree!” 

“Who said something about getting a tree?” 

“I’ve been living with you for the past several months and have known you for more than seven years. You can’t hide anything from me!” 

He grinned and placed a hand on his heart. “I didn’t have the intention to. After all, a ten foot Christmas tree would be difficult to hide from you, wouldn’t it?” 

“ _ We. Are. Not. Having. A. Tree _ ,” Hermione enunciated with emphasis. 

“But why not? Without one in the living room, it isn’t really Christmas.” 

“Exactly,” Hermione said with a tone of finality. She closed her eyes again, only to feel Draco’s weight pressing down the soft cushions of the comfortable sofa. 

“Why don’t you like Christmas, Hermione?” 

“Wow, subtle like the Hogwarts Express. And here I thought you were the Prince of Slytherin, the House of Cunning,” she said sarcastically. 

She heard him snorting and forced her tired eyes open. 

“What a Gryffindor title. But you haven’t answered my question.” 

Hermione sat up, surprised. Usually, she was able to deter her fellow Head from whatever topic he wanted to discuss by throwing insults or compliments at him. Compliments worked better, and really, they weren’t even difficult to find. Eighth year Draco Malfoy was a pupil by the book. He spent his days in the library, always raised his hand in class, and was a true magician with his wand -- a real concurrence to Hermione. He appeared to try and demonstrate to everyone that he had changed. And Hermione believed him. He was polite, well-mannered, and obedient to each and every rule. 

Despite all that, — something that made his change even more believable in her eyes — he was still arrogant, sarcastic, and full of himself. He had a wink, a smirk, and, in most cases, a lot more for many pretty witches.

But in some regards, Hermione could understand the witches leaving their dorm on the walk of shame on weekend mornings. Draco was handsome with his bright grey eyes, his charm, and his ‘devil may care’ attitude. Still, whenever she looked at him in the midst of a mutual study session, even when he was solely focused on the book before him, she could detect a residing sense of sadness, of longing. Something she could sense in Harry, in Ron, and in herself. 

As much as they wanted to believe it, they weren’t normal Hogwarts students. They were injured, hurt, damaged. 

Draco and Hermione surprisingly were getting along very well… unceremoniously and naturally. And that was why she trusted him enough to reply, “You know why.” 

“Parents?” he asked, calmly. And when she nodded, he simply clapped her on her outstretched legs in a friendly, commiserating gesture. 

She was thankful that he didn’t delve for any further elaboration, for he already knew her backstory, just as she knew his. 

Ever the sensible wizard, Draco got up from the couch and immediately started humming again. 

Hermione groaned. “No tree. No festive cheer. No singing, no whistling, and  _ definitely no humming! _ ” 

He didn’t stop. 

She threw a cushion after him. 

“And really, the ‘Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy’? Can it get any less Malfoy?” She sat up, exasperated. 

“ _ Au contraire, Mademoiselle! _ ” Draco stopped his decorating to explain. “It is some kind of traditional Christmas song for us since my grandfather visited the prèmiere of the Nutcracker in Saint Petersburg in 1892.” 

“Show off,” she growled. “Way too cheery for your family if you ask me.” 

“Would you rather listen to me do the ‘Coventry Carol’? Because we didn’t see enough murder and violence for more than a lifetime?”

Hermione nearly fell off the sofa. “Pardon?” 

“You’ve heard me alright. Are you going to explode on me now because I dared to make fun of our magnificent youth?” The Christmas spirit had evaporated, and now Draco sneered at her with hard eyes. 

She decided to put her foot down. “And are you going to throw a tinsel tantrum on me because I dared to be surprised that you’re familiar with a decidedly Muggle Christmas carol?” She raised one of her eyebrows at him, imitating him absolutely on purpose. Grey eyes stared into browns, and a thick tension could be felt in the Head dorm. Until - 

“Research!” Draco threw up his hands, thereby catapulting some tinsel into the roaring fireplace. “Carols, cracker pulling, mince pies, going to the pub, all of it! I researched it because I thought it would be nice to be prepared for this!” 

Hermione blinked, processing what he said. “For spending Christmas with me?” 

“Yes!” 

Hermione’s heart warmed up. “That is… really nice of you.” 

“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” He had found his smirk again, it seemed. 

“Awfully nice,” Hermione mocked him. “But you know that not every Muggle in England follows  _ all _ those traditions, right?” 

He rolled his eyes. This time, the gesture was a clear imitation of her. “I am aware. But when I can learn Muggle carols, you can follow the tradition of having a Christmas tree to please me.” 

Just when she automatically wanted to reply in the positive, she realised that he was trying to manipulate her. Clever. She grinned. “I would, if it actually were a Wizarding tradition. But it stems from the Romans who placed decorated fir trees into the temples to celebrate the Saturnalia.” 

“That’s debatable,” Draco sharply countered. “Though, without doubt, decorated evergreen plants are a traditional way to celebrate the ancient winter solstice.” 

Further engaging in the, admittedly, refreshing argument, she fired back, “I am not even starting with the fact that the first indoor Christmas tree was an idea of Martin Luther, a German Protestant, which is as un-magical as it can get!” 

“That is what the Muggle historians say. But, I swear by Merlin and Morgana, there is a portrait from the fifteenth century hanging in Malfoy Manor that shows the Great Hall with its giant Christmas tree!” 

“Your ancestors simply painted it in much later, obviously. And the characters in the portraits can move, so why couldn’t they have just stolen a tree from another painting?” 

And so it went on. For hours. While they bantered back and forth (and without real malice) over trees and traditions, Hermione started helping Draco decorate their living room without thinking twice about it. At some point, an elf brought them rum-laced punch and gingerbread. Hermione felt completely engaged and so alive like this. It was like winning against the Mountain Troll — such intense nights cemented friendships.

The tree they bought was eight feet tall. 

* * *

**1999**

“I can’t believe you had me read this!” Draco entered her small flat without any introduction. 

Hermione knew there was no sense in commenting on it; after all, the wards were keyed to him like they were to Harry, Ron, and Ginny. But the latter ones at least had enough sense of decorum to knock before they entered. 

“Merry Christmas to you too, Draco!” she smiled at him instead. 

“Yes, yes, come all ye faithful and so on,” he spoke quickly, dismissing her festive greeting with a wave of his hand. “Why are you even here? It’s Christmas Eve?” he said, somehow making it accusatory. 

“First of all, it’s only four in the afternoon, and secondly, I am not going to the Burrow until tomorrow morning. This evening belongs to the family.” She tried to not let her voice show any hidden sadness. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been invited by Arthur and Molly, but she had politely declined. “And I don’t want to steal Harry and Ginny’s spotlight from their big announcement by staring daggers at Ron’s vapid girlfriend.” 

Book still in hand, Draco gracefully sat down in the armchair facing her sofa. “Ah, Potter screwed up the Contraceptive Charm, I guess?” 

Hermione took the book from his hand and smacked him with it, laughing. “No, believe it or not, they were already trying for a baby. That’s what Harry told me, at least.” She threw the book back at him. 

Hermione had never been a gossip girl, but the closer her friendship with Draco had grown, the more she found enjoyment in the harmless gossiping with him about people they knew. His pureblood status did exactly one good thing to him, and that was knowing many people and knowing a lot about them. 

“We’re barely twenty, and Potter is already married, got his wife pregnant, and making a name for himself among the Aurors. And what have the two of us achieved?” 

Hermione grinned at him, getting up to prepare tea. “Well, I consider myself responsible for Harry surviving his classes, Quidditch,  _ and _ a war. And you”—she seemed to ponder— “are doing a good job in rising in the ranks with him. I know the two of you make a stellar team.” 

Draco shrugged. “We’re acceptable, I guess.” 

“Don’t reject my compliment, Auror Malfoy. We both know you surpassed Harry on every exam during your training. And while he is the impulsive one, the heart of the team, you are the head, planning and debating every option.” 

He blushed, still struggling to accept when someone said something genuinely nice to him. Hermione adored that, for it made him look so adorably boyish. 

“I am debating whether I should throw this book at you!” he growled, downplaying his reaction. “Have you ever read it?” He pointed at the book cover as if it weren’t  _ Hermione’s  _ very own copy of ‘The Mists of Avalon.’ “The portrayal of Morgana and Merlin is a catastrophe!” 

“For someone who grew up with magic, it surely must be, but that isn’t the point!” Hermione replied, unimpressed. 

“What is the point then?” Draco asked, impatient. 

“When I read the book as a girl, I already knew about magic, and I still loved it!”

“It’s a fictional story written by a Muggle, not—” He froze for a moment, before... “No. No, really?” 

“What?” 

“Is it because of the romance and strong women thing?” 

“Am I not allowed to like romance?” Hermione was growing irritated now. 

“I didn’t mean it like that! I just never pegged you for a girl who—” 

“You never pegged me for a girl? You sound like Ron back in the day, Malfoy!” She only called him by his last name when she was considerably annoyed with him. 

“Will you let me finish, witch? I never considered you to be a woman who reads books that feed from the inequality of men and women!” 

Hermione frowned. “That is—” she scrambled for words “—very educated of you.” Not a brilliant answer, she had to admit. 

The tea kettle started whistling. 

“We’re not done here, Miss Granger!” Draco called after her while she left to bring the tea. 

Indeed, they weren’t. The next time Hermione glanced at the clock, it was nearing midnight. She and Draco had spent the entire afternoon and evening arguing hotly over a variety of novels, both wizarding and Muggle. 

And for each book, they found a plot point, character, or background element to disagree about, leading them to even more animated banter. 

When Draco eventually returned home, Hermione felt much better than before. Less lonely, less tense, but a lot more herself. 

* * *

**2000**

“Where’s the mulled wine?” Ginny stormed into Hermione’s flat, Harry following her a bit slower. 

Hermione stared at the witch, her eyebrows raised in question but nevertheless pouring her friend a mug of mulled wine. “I wanted to wait until everyone arrived, but you seem to need this instantly.” 

Ginny was totally unfazed by Hermione’s comment. “Why, yes! This is the first time since we had James that I am allowed to drink!” 

“That’s why I like her,” Pansy said. 

The dark haired witch was the newest and surprising addition to Hermione’s small circle of friends. Her friendship with Draco had deepened, and the more time they spent together, the more Pansy appeared. At first, the two women had been wary of each other, but one fateful evening, Draco and Pansy stumbled into Ron and Hermione in Diagon Alley, and what had started as two separate nights out with close friends somehow ended with Hermione and Draco awkwardly sharing a conversation while Pansy slurped body shots from Ron’s body. Ron was the down-to-earth man Pansy needed, and she knew exactly how to not take his bullshit (and table manners). All in all, they were a perfect couple. 

“Where’s Malfoy?” Harry asked, carefully sipping his eggnog, not one for the spiced wine. 

“I don’t know. He said he wanted to arrive early to help with the preparations, but he didn’t show up,” Hermione replied, concern bubbling up again. “I sent an owl, but he didn’t answer it.” 

At this point, Pansy frowned. “Have you tried Floo’ing into the Manor?” 

“No, I haven’t. Last time I wasn’t exactly welcome there, remember?” 

The atmosphere at Draco’s birthday celebration had been icy. Lucius and Narcissa had wisely decided not to make any open insult, but it was perfectly clear that they were appalled by the friendship between their son and Hermione. 

With another glance at the clock, Hermione voiced, “Maybe you can—” Her suggestion that Pansy check the Manor was interrupted by a knock on the door. 

Hermione frowned. Usually, Draco entered by Floo or Apparated right in. She opened the door, finding a clearly distraught friend on the step. 

His hair was in disarray, and he didn’t even wear a coat or a scarf against the cold. He must have Apparated but missed his destination, she surmised. He kept his face straight, but she could read him like a book by now. He fought to keep his facade intact, the mask in place to make his inner turmoil invisible. But that didn’t work with Hermione. 

She promptly pulled him inside. Summoning a blanket, she placed it around his shoulders. She knew he wouldn’t talk to her in this mood, so she didn’t ask any questions. “Go to my bedroom, I will follow you in a moment.” 

Doing as told, he went off. 

Hermione, on the other hand, went to the living room. “Draco is here, but something must have happened. He’s in a right state.” 

“Do you need us?” Ron asked, ever the practical man. 

“A tea would probably be nice, but other than that, I need time to find out what made him react like that.” 

Pansy had her wand already in hand. “I swear, if Lucius did anything, I am going to tie his balls to Christmas tree in the Great Hall.” 

Despite the situation, Hermione chuckled. “That would be a sight to behold.” Taking the tea, she bid her friends goodnight, knowing they’d respect Draco’s need for privacy and leave. 

“Take care of him, Hermione. And tell the idiot he is supposed to owl me, yes?” were Pansy’s words before Floo’ing to the Burrow. 

Carefully, Hermione entered her bedroom. Draco sat within, on the edge of her bed, staring out the window. Hermione tightened the blanket around his shoulders and pressed a cup of tea into his hands before lighting a warming fire in the fireplace. Then, she gently removed the shoes from Draco’s feet and sat next to him, her head leaning on his shoulder. 

“What happened?” she asked after they had listened to the crackling of the fire for a long time. 

“My father didn’t want me to come here.” Draco’s voice was hoarse. Had he been yelling? 

“Nothing new there,” she commented. 

“This time, it was different. He accused me of being immoral, that a wizard and a witch can’t be this close without having ‘sexual relations.’ My job makes it even worse, for no Malfoy should dirty his hands by working as an Auror. My lifestyle distracts me from fulfilling my role as Head of the House.” 

Hermione snorted. The immorality of Lucius’ behaviour during the war had cost him that position.

”I told him that that wasn’t the truth.” Draco sipped a bit of the still hot tea, closing his eyes and relishing the rich flavour. “Then, he said, ‘The truth is what I make it. I could set this world on fire and call it rain,’” Draco emulated his father with eerie accuracy. “That had me seeing red.” 

“What did you do?” 

“I disowned him, Hermione.” 

He turned towards her, and the intensity of his eyes made Hermione’s stomach drop. The sadness, the desperation in those grey eyes were mixed with a sense of pride. 

“I’ve had enough. I followed his ideas for too long, and now that I’ve freed myself from him, I finally had the strength to take that step.” 

“What will happen now?” 

“I don’t know. I am going to leave the Manor to my parents. They will have some financial resources, but other than that, they’re on their own.” 

“I am proud of you, Draco.” She threw her arms around him, hugging him tightly. 

“I know I did the right thing, but why does it feel so… cruel?” He pushed her back so he could look into her eyes. 

“Because you are a good man, Draco. And you feel uncomfortable taking the financial comfort away from your parents. You feel responsible for what they think and what they do. But their mistakes aren’t yours anymore. You’ve changed and grown. Grown into a wonderful man.” Feelings threatened to overcome her, and she carded her hands through Draco’s hair. She saw tears in his eyes, but he blinked them away. 

“Thank you, Hermione,” he whispered. “Thank you so much for being there.” Before she had realised his intentions, Draco had leaned in and pressed his lips to hers. It wasn’t a kiss full of desperate passion; it was the softest caress of lips against each other. She breathed him in, his presence so intense and warm and so, so real. Her emotions were torn inside out, and yet she didn’t want the kiss to end. But just when her mind had registered that realization, he ended it. 

Though, he didn’t let her go. Draco pulled her down with him, as he laid on his back, and somehow, in one smooth movement, had them both covered with her comforter. Never letting go, he cuddled her into his side, curled against his form. Hermione relaxed despite the chaos of feelings coursing through her. 

Draco fell asleep within minutes, exhaustion taking over. 

She, on the other hand, pondered over what had just occurred. Draco had kissed her. And she hadn’t wanted it to stop. Over the past several months, she had had a few moments in which she had noticed his adorable smile or how much she enjoyed leaning against him on the sofa, or how much he made her laugh. But she had stored that away as a natural reaction to being friends with an attractive wizard like Draco. But now? Now she began to wonder if, limited to this point, Lucius had been right and she and Draco were more than “just friends.” She wanted to explore these thoughts further, wanted to think on them much longer, but Draco’s even breathing and his warm body against hers had her without a chance against sleep. 

And sleep she did, way into the morning, so that when she awoke, the weak December sun was already pouring into her bedroom. It took some moments for the previous night’s memories to come back, but when they did, it almost hurt. How would Draco behave around her now? Would things change between them? 

In an ideal, fairy tale or fantasy world, Hermione would wake up to the scent of bacon and coffee. 

Instead, she heard a certain blond wizard cursing in her kitchen. She rolled out of bed, stopped in her bathroom to pee, wash, and change, and then entered the room where she still heard mumbling from. 

“Good morning, Draco!” 

The man in question stood next to her coffee machine, wand in hand. “I can’t believe you drink this in the morning!” he stared at her coffee package, the spoon still in the half open machine, and glowered. 

“What?” 

“Hermione, we’ve been friends for some time now, but this? This isn’t coffee, this is a disease! I can’t believe I’m only seeing this now!” 

Hermione sighed in relief. Draco was back to his usual, arrogant self. They could talk later about the kiss; now, they had to argue about the coffee. 

“But you’ve never said it tasted bad when I brew it!” she defended herself. 

“That’s because I am usually too drunk to leave when I crash on your sofa, and the coffee is the first thing you hand me when I wake up!” he said, offended. 

“Maybe you are just too inept to brew a good coffee with this Muggle contraption!” Hermione pointed at the coffee machine. 

“Maybe that’s because every good coffee is brewed by hand, without any magical or technical help!” He deftly placed his empty mug on the counter.

“You only think that because you were asleep during most of the Charms classes!” 

For the rest of the day, Hermione and Draco argued over coffee. How it was made. Why it was made. Which way one should drink it. They were still arguing when Hermione forced him to come to the Burrow for Christmas dinner. 

Their friends were amused, for they felt the change. The change in Draco — and, unexplained and yet undefined — the change in Hermione and Draco’s relationship. 

* * *

**2001**

The next year, Hermione was late. Late in buying presents for Harry’s now two children and the rest of the Weasley family. Late in decking Draco’s new halls with boughs of holly. Late in coming to Draco’s new house because she couldn’t decide what to wear. 

Maybe it was her listening to the “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy” one too many times, but in the end, she had decided to wear something a bit… mischievous? The deep green dress was made of soft fabric that didn’t cling to her body but hugged her curves perfectly. It fell all the way to her knees, and the neckline dipped lower than most of what she typically wore. Maybe she wanted to impress someone, maybe she wanted to feel pretty just for herself. Although, whatever the reason was, her heart sped up when Draco opened the door. 

“Why didn’t you Floo in as usual?” he greeted her. 

“I didn’t want to ruin my outfit.” 

“Let me see.” Draco reached for her hand and pulled her in. When he scrutinised her, she swore she could see his eyes darkening for a second before his lips curled into an appreciative grin. “You look stunning.” Still holding her hand, he twirled her around and she started giggling. 

The sound must have reached Pansy’s ears, for she said, loudly, “Oh, Hermione finally had the grace to arrive. Come in, Ron and I have something to say.” She elbowed Ron, who had already blushed. 

“We’re getting married!”

Hugs and congratulations followed, and Hermione and Harry enveloped Ron in a bear hug that had him gasping for air. 

“That’s awfully traditional of you,” Draco commented. 

Pansy slapped him in good humour. “Says the one deeply in love with his supposed friend,” she whispered, just loud enough for Hermione to hear. 

Hermione blushed, suddenly feeling hot. The entire year, the previous Christmas had been on her mind. She hadn’t been able to turn away from his dazzling smile, from his platonic hugs that she held onto just a tad longer than necessary. Every touch was an heart-stopping reminder of if there could be more. Or the consequences if there couldn’t. Their friendship was so unique, and she had already almost ruined such a special relationship by jumping into an affair with Ron shortly after the war. 

“Shhhh!” Draco commanded, chastising Pansy. “That’s my problem!” 

“Obviously! But I know the perfect solution. You just have to find your balls and—” 

Hermione was distracted by Ginny who placed another mulled wine in her hand. 

“Oh, Hermione,” the redhead started, her tone too perfectly imitating her mother’s. “The apple is ripe for the plucking, methinks.” 

Hermione almost choked on the hot beverage. “Excuse me?” Did she really hear what she thought Ginny said? 

“Apple, Malfoy, tension…” Ginny drifted off, leaving the rest to Hermione’s imagination. 

“ _ Ginevra! _ ” 

The scandalised tone alerted Pansy and Draco. They stopped their private conversation and turned toward the rest of them. 

Draco raised his eyebrows with an amused smirk, and Hermione felt her knees weaken. 

“She—” Hermione scrambled for an excuse. “She said that we should—” 

“That the two of you haven’t had your usual round of festive bantering yet!” Harry stepped in. Since all eyes were on him, he explained, “Well, Draco and Hermione always have that one topic they can’t seem to let go over the holidays, right? First, the tree, then the novels—” 

“The coffee last year, and the House cup over Easter!” Pansy continued. 

Hermione and Draco stared at each other, both realising their friends were right. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll come up with something,” Draco promised with a wink before rushing into the kitchen for the final dinner preparations. 

While the whole evening was a wonderful affair, Draco remained very un-banter-y, which made Hermione feel quite disappointed. 

She had pondered through the celebration that, while their friends were perfectly on point with their observations, she had come to the conclusion that it was the banter and growing friendship between her and Draco that made the holidays special to her in the past three years. 

Shortly before midnight, everyone except herself had left. When they had finished tidying up, Draco handed her a tumbler of whiskey and sat down on the cozy leather sofa next to her. Automatically, she placed her feet in his lap. 

At some point that evening, she had replaced the high heels that had gone so perfectly with her outfit with warm, fuzzy socks made by Molly herself. Taking a sip from her drink, she gave a pleased sigh. “We haven’t argued this year.“ 

“No, we haven’t.” Something in Draco’s voice had a shiver running down her spine. A certain timbre that called to her. How he sat there, head resting on the back of the couch, eyes closed, he was the perfect picture of relaxation. And yet… 

“But it’s our personal Christmas tradition.” She pouted. “We just need a topic.” 

“Well, we could argue how inappropriate this attire of yours is.“ 

Suddenly, the heat she felt had nothing to do with the roaring fire or the whisky. “Inappropriate? Because I wear a dress and Molly’s socks?” 

“No, that is cute, not inappropriate.” Raising his head, he opened his eyes and connected his gaze with hers. 

Hermione nearly stopped breathing. His pupils were blown widely, the grey ring of his iris only slim in contrast to the darkness in its centre. 

“What is inappropriate then?” she asked, scared and excited for the answer. 

“Let’s start with the way you smile at me, Hermione. You have truly become my friend since that fateful Christmas years ago, but somewhere in the process, I got much more involved than is decent for a platonic relationship. And those smiles you throw my way are bound to kill me since you’re going to hex me when I admit that all I want to do is kiss them away.” He had leaned forward and gently cupped her jaw with his hand. 

“I am not,” she whispered, not daring herself to look away. “Going to hex you if you kiss me. In fact—” she inched closer, so close that they practically shared their breathes “—I am going to hex if you don’t.” 

Draco made a surprised sound before finally closing the gap between them. He kissed her, and, Merlin and Morgana, if her toes didn’t curl. His lips were carefully soft against her, but he held her, one hand on the back of her neck, the other against her hip, in a way that was the right amount of possessiveness. He was claiming her, but she gave as good as she got. In a clever maneuver, she turned halfway around and moved forward, effectively placing herself on his lap with her legs on either side of him. 

“Also, this dress—” He nipped the sensitive area at the side of her neck, making her shiver. 

“Yes?” 

“It is totally inappropriate. I couldn’t concentrate half the evening because your bum and your breasts in this dress made me feel very un-festive.” 

She grinned until he grabbed her behind with his hands and squeezed it. Reflexively, she rolled her hips against him, causing the two of them to gasp because his excitement was very much pressing against her knickers in the most delicious way. 

“Well, this still feels very much like a special celebration to me.” 

The next kiss had their tongues entangling. The one after that had his hands wandering beneath the hem of her dress, cupping the globes of her bum again. Hermione was at a point where all she wanted to do was crawl so close to Draco that they became one. 

“I want you, Draco,” she murmured against his temple, relishing in the resulting shiver of his. “As my friend, yes, definitely.” For a second, he froze. “But also as my lover, partner, boyfriend, husband, whatever. As long as you are mine.” 

He let out a relieved breath. “Best Christmas present ever.” His following smile was serene, peaceful even. 

But Hermione had other plans for tonight than making doe eyes at him. “Don’t you believe for one second that we are done here yet!” With that, she pulled Draco away from the sofa and into the bedroom. 

No one was surprised when Draco and Hermione showed up at the Burrow on the afternoon of the twenty-fifth of December, holding hands and sharing entirely un-platonic kisses.

Until there was a heated discussion about whether it was okay for Draco to give Ginny and Harry’s oldest a toy broom. But it wasn’t Christmas for Hermione and Draco until they bantered over something, right?

  
  



End file.
